


🎅🏼 His Only Wish 🎁

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Crack, Drinking, Fantasy, Humor, M/M, Sibling Incest, Somewhere In Seasons 1 Or 2, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Two men meet on Christmas Eve, both not in the best of moods. But it's Christmas, and things have to turn out well in this magic night.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62





	🎅🏼 His Only Wish 🎁

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts), [Elsa9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsa9/gifts), [ChamomileTeaPages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChamomileTeaPages/gifts).



> Just a short story, gifted to those lovely readers who support me on every story. And a happy Christmas time to everybody!  
> My time for writing so much has come to an end now so I will keep quieter already :)

He was so done. He was too old for this job, dammit! His feet were aching, something was decidedly wrong with his back and he was, in general, royally pissed off.

Impatiently shoving his tight cap out of his face, he stomped forward, ignoring the complaints of his aching body. He only wanted a stiff drink now and not hear another word about presents and demanding, ill-behaved and decidedly ungrateful children, helpless parents, chimneys, bad weather and this bloody itching cap! And wasn’t this damned suit getting tighter with every year?!

 _I look like a fucking caricature,_ he thought grimly while he was stalking across the street, dressed in red from head to toe, trying not to step into dirty puddles every two metres. He hated his job. Okay, there were better days. Rarely. Hardly ever. And right now he bloody hated it!

Scratching his beard (and very unsurprisingly, he hated that ghastly thing, too), he glanced at a man who was walking into the same direction, about twenty metres from him. He was carrying a long umbrella but he hadn’t bothered to open it. He was soaking wet, his shoulders were hanging, and the man with the long, white beard could see from afar that he was nursing a nice depression.

 _At least someone who feels even worse than I do_ , he mused, feeling a bit bad about this un-Christmas-y thought at once. But really, he…

“Hey, old man! Where’re you going so fast?

He sighed and stopped. Slowly he turned around, facing two young men with the typical clothes and looks of street gangsters. One of them was heavily tattooed. In the face. All over. It didn’t make him look any more attractive than his mean eyes and his thin mouth, which probably looked like an ugly sneer all the time. The other one was bald and had a ghastly thing in his left ear that had widened his earlobe quite impressively. If someone appreciated such things, which he didn’t. If possible, this one looked even nastier than the other one. “Go home,” he said to them. “I am not in the mood for your shit.”

They made a step back in surprise. Obviously they had not expected such a tone or choice of words. But then one of them moved forward again, and he could see that he had a baseball bat in his hand. _Oh, great…_

“Oh yes, Grandpa? You think you’ll get rid of us so easily?” Tattoo-Face said. His voice was as mean as the naked devil that was decorating his forehead.

“I, personally, think he will,” a voice behind the old man said. It was calm but firm, with no hint of the sadness his whole appearance had shown only moments earlier.

Because this was the man he had just seen from behind. He had moved impressively fast. To save a stranger from two rowdies? Perhaps this day wasn’t as bad as he had thought after all.

Of course the two miscreants just laughed. “Oh really? Whatcha gonna do – hit us with your fancy umbrella?”

The tall, dark-haired man smiled, and it looked surprisingly scary. “Almost right.” And then he removed the handle from the umbrella – and it turned out it was a small but efficient-looking gun.

The bald guy snorted. “Yeah, it’s a child’s toy, right? As if...” And then he yelped and clumsily jumped backwards when the man in the expensive, albeit soaked coat shot into the ground, about an inch away from his right foot.

“Not quite.” The good-looking fellow with the dimpled chin put the little weapon back into the umbrella.

The white-haired man watched the two wannabe-robbers run for their lives. “Damn, that was great! Thank you so much, sir!”

His saviour just shrugged. “I can hardly let them beat or rob you. Mycroft Holmes.” He offered him his hand.

“Father Christmas!” he answered, taking it. He wasn’t surprised when the man stared at him as if he had lost his mind. He sighed but then shook it off. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t expected this reaction. Or as if he was experiencing it for the first time. “I assure you I haven’t fled from a mental institution. Listen, can I buy you a drink to express my gratitude? I definitely need one and don’t get me wrong – you look as if you could do with a whiskey or two as well.”

The man named Mycroft Holmes (and what kind of a name was ‘Mycroft’? He had certainly never had it on his list) looked at him cautiously but then he nodded, obviously having come to the conclusion that he might be crazy but not dangerous. “Yes. You’re right. I was on my way to a rather nice and calm place for that actually.”

“Oh, wonderful. You lead, I’ll follow!”

And so Father Christmas and the man whose position was not as easy to define quickly walked towards a warm place where they would find a fire to dry their hair and clothes and something to warm them from the inside as well.

🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄

“This umbrella… is a great thing! You're James Bond, huh?” Father Christmas, feeling way better, warmer and decidedly tipsy, pointed at the man in the fine suit.

“James Bond is not real, you know,” he said, grinning.

“Ha! I bet there are many guys like him! Secret agents!”

Mycroft shrugged. “That's true. But it's not as glorious as one might think.”

Father Christmas nodded. He could write a book about such jobs… “What's wrong with you, Mycroft Holmes?” he asked then, trying to sober up a bit. Not that easy after four, no five whiskeys but he was doing his best.

“I beg your pardon?”

The older man smiled. “You know what I mean. You looked as if you were walking to your execution on this wonderful Christmas Eve.”

Mycroft snorted. “I hate Christmas!”

“Oh, me too… Go on. Why do _you_ hate it?”

Mycroft sighed. “It doesn't matter.” He looked very sad again.

Father Christmas wouldn’t have it. It _was_ Christmas after all, and he had been saved from a lot of trouble by this fearless man. He wouldn’t allow him to go on suffering. He snapped his fingers. It wasn’t necessary but it was an old habit. “Okay. Done.”

“Sorry?” Mycroft, who had just sipped at his whiskey, put the glass back onto the table.

“Your biggest wish. It has been fulfilled.” He sighed when the younger man looked at him as if he was close to calling the men with the straightjacket. “I don't know what it is. But that doesn't matter. It will come true.”

“Oh dear. It can never come true,” Mycroft said full of bitter conviction. “And if you knew what it is, you wouldn’t want to spend one more minute with me.”

Father Christmas smiled. “I don’t believe that, son. I have heard and read all kinds of stupid, horrible, ghastly – you're getting the picture – wishes but I know yours is nothing like this. Why? Because I can see into your soul. It is troubled, and lonely, and you think you don't deserve any happiness but you do. You are decent and caring and your wish will be just like that.”

“Pfff… You know _nothing_ ,” Mycroft spat out. “It's not decent in the least!”

“Ah, you are mixing up society's morals with true decency. Well, I won't be able to talk you out of thinking this. But you will see. Your wish will come true. Tonight. In this most magic of all nights. And you will embrace it because you deserve it. Remember my words! And now thank you again. You didn’t only save my arse. You saved my day. Good bye and good luck, Mycroft Holmes.” And with this he was gone, and a horrified and startled Mycroft Holmes was staring at an empty chair. But on the table, next to an almost empty glass of whiskey, was money – more than enough for paying their drinks.

Feeling completely sober but decidedly terrified and confused, Mycroft paid the bill and strode out of the small, quiet pub. He gave the rest of the money to a beggar who was sitting on the pavement with his dog, both wrapped in a blanket together, and the old man thanked him happily, wishing him ‘a very Merry Christmas’.

Mycroft took a cab home. He felt disturbed and wired, but the longer they were driving, the more depressed he was feeling. Whatever just had happened (and it couldn’t have happened, could it?), his biggest wish would never come true. It was impossible. When he arrived home, he had tears in his eyes and pain in his heart.

🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄

“Oh, hello John. Where's Sherlock?”

John Watson shook his head. “I have no idea. We were upstairs, preparing the punch, and suddenly he grabbed his coat and said he had to go.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “But he didn’t say where or why?”

“No. It was as if he had seen a ghost.” John shook his head. “Now Greg, Mike and Molly will be here shortly, and His Majesty is nowhere to be found.”

The old woman patted his arm. “I will help you with the punch and everything else. The finger food is ready anyway. And I will entertain the guests.”

John grinned. “You know what – I do believe that. But it's still strange. Well, he wasn't that keen on the party anyway. Probably he just couldn’t find an excuse to back out of it that I would have bought so he just left.”

Mrs Hudson nodded, but she didn’t think so. And she had a suspicion where Sherlock might have gone. She had eyes, oh yes. She saw what was happening right in front of her, even if all those smart men were too blind to see. But apparently, Sherlock was not blind anymore. If so, someone would be very happy tonight…

“Come,” she said to John. “There is still a lot to do, and it won't get done by itself.” They would have a good time. And so would hopefully Sherlock. And a certain other man, who was so good at hiding his vulnerability behind a mask of superiority and arrogance. But not from her…

“Merry Christmas, Brothers Holmes,” she whispered, and John turned to her.

“Did you say anything?”

“No, dear. Upstairs with you.”

🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄🎅🏼🎄

Mycroft didn’t bother dressing when he had finished his shower and had brushed his teeth and shaved the stubble of the day off, not knowing why. Who cared if he had a beard or smelled bad? “Nobody,” he said to his empty house. In his silky black bathrobe, he slowly walked across the corridor to go to his bedroom. It was still early, somehow this day didn’t seem to go by at all, but he would go to bed, and hopefully he wouldn’t wake up until ghastly Christmas was over…

He had almost reached the bedroom door when the doorbell rang. He froze. No. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Probably just someone who wanted to ask for using the phone or some thieves who wanted to know if anyone was at home! He never had visitors. And of course it wouldn’t be the only person he wanted to see. Ever…

And then he heard a key in the front door. Nobody had a key to his house!

“ _Mycroft?”_

He felt as if he was very close to passing out. He had hallucinations! All evening already! He hadn't had drinks with Father Christmas, because such a creature didn’t even exist! And Sherlock had not come here!

And yet – there he was, hurrying up the stairs and stopping dead when he saw him.

“Oh. Hello. Didn’t you hear me calling?”

Mycroft could do nothing but stare at him. How beautiful he was… His cheeks flushed from the cold, his hair tousled by the wind, dressed in a purple shirt and tight black trousers. “Your coat,” he mumbled, as if that made any sense.

“Oh, I left it downstairs.” Sherlock seemed to notice that he was only wearing a robe. “You… You are alone, aren't you?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle. Did Sherlock really think he was with a lover? “Yes. Of course. I just had a shower. I'm always alone.” Damn… He sounded so pathetic. But he was, wasn't he?

But Sherlock shook his head. “No. You are not alone. I'm here.”

“Obviously.” Dammit… He couldn’t be so sarcastic now! Sherlock had come to see him after all, why ever he could not fathom.

His brother grimaced. “No, I mean… Let's go inside.” He walked past Mycroft, directly into his bedroom.

“What… Sherlock…” He broke off. They had been standing in front of this room. Where else would Sherlock go if he wanted to sit down?

And he did. On Mycroft's bed.

‘ _Your biggest wish. It has been fulfilled,’_ echoed through his mind. He was close to smashing his head against the wall. He was going crazy. Was Sherlock even really here? But even if he was, it had nothing to do with…

“I needed to see you.”

Mycroft winced when Sherlock was suddenly standing in front of him, so close that Mycroft could smell his aftershave. “What?”

“I just knew… John wanted a Christmas party. And we didn’t even think of inviting you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “It's all right. You know I don't celebrate Christmas. You can go back to your guests now and…”

“And I realised I didn’t want to see any of them,” Sherlock interrupted him as if he hadn't said anything. “I wanted to see _you_.”

With his pulse racing, Mycroft forced himself to think. Whatever had happened earlier – this was real. Sherlock was here. He meant what he was saying. “Why? Why did you want to see me?”

“Because I love you, Mycroft. Always. Since I was… thirteen? I pushed these feelings away, all the time. I was nasty to you so you wouldn’t get aware of them. But they never went away and that's why I never found anyone or even looked for anyone. I pretended to live for my job alone but in fact I stayed alone because I couldn’t have the one I wanted. And we turned into strangers. But today… The lights, the Christmas tree… I missed you. And I thought… when if not tonight should I tell you, finally tell you? If you condemn me now, it will break my heart, but it was breaking anyway. I just wish you would return my feelings so we could be happy. Mycroft? Are you okay?”

Mycroft was feeling as if his entire world had imploded. His brain was giving signals of ‘game over’. His vision was blurry. This was either the cruellest dream he'd ever had or the best moment of his life – his stupidity over the past two decades aside. But whatever it was, there was only one thing to do now: he cupped his little brother's face and kissed him, and after a surprised gasp, Sherlock kissed him back fiercely and passionately, and in a second when they had to part for air, he could see tears in Sherlock's beautiful green eyes, and he could feel more tears running down his own cheeks, but it didn’t matter. He had never felt so happy, so _blessed_.

And when Sherlock pulled him towards the bed, he willingly followed and they fell on it in a kissing, groping pile, pawing at one another and carelessly peeling each other out of their clothes, and soon he was worshipping every inch of Sherlock's body with his lips and hands, rewarded by Sherlock's pants and groans and pleas for giving him more. And then it was him who found himself on his back, his brother all over him, rubbing his hard appendage against his leg, and then lips closed around Mycroft's cock and he moaned his joy to the ceiling, his hands buried in Sherlock's thick curls, and it was all so real and it was so good.

They ended up face to face, kissing, grinding against each other, their hands kneading one another's bottoms, and they came in quick succession, showering each other with the proof of their hot desire, and they collapsed in each other's arms, their hearts hammering in their chests, sweat covering their bodies.

And Mycroft managed to pull the blanket around them, keeping the love of his life warm and safe, and before he drifted off to sleep, entangled with his beautiful brother, he mumbled ‘thank you’ into his silky curls, and in his mind an old man with a white beard and a red suit smirked at him and said, _‘You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, and don’t you dare let him go again.’_

And Mycroft knew he would never do that. He had always wanted to keep his brother safe, and he made a vow to not only do that but to make him the happiest man in the world. Well, the second-happiest one because nobody could be happier than him now that his biggest, his _only_ wish had come true in this magic, wonderful night.

🎅🏼 The End 🎄

  
  



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